


still looking forward

by blindmadness



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canon Disabled Character, F/M, Incest, Infidelity, Jaime is not good at being a person, Pre-Relationship, Sibling Incest, Timeline Shenanigans, Weddings, fencing as flirting, gratuitous use of sarcasm, lots and lots of cursing, vague description of fencing, vague description of politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-30
Updated: 2016-05-30
Packaged: 2018-07-11 04:45:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7029151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blindmadness/pseuds/blindmadness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It turns out that Jaime Lannister only really knows two women—his sister and his police partner. So when he needs a date to the former's wedding, of course he has to ask the latter.</p><p>(A modern AU of the prompt "my ex just invited me to their wedding and I need you to be my date so it doesn't look like I've spent the last few years failing to get over them.")</p>
            </blockquote>





	still looking forward

**Author's Note:**

> So almost a year and a half ago, my dear friend [Liz](http://sostickaround.tumblr.com) prompted me the prompt in the summary; after I realized it would take at least a few thousand words to answer properly, I decided I'd write it as a birthday fic for her instead. It ended up being, uh... more than a few thousand words, and taking rather longer to write, so I thought perhaps for her next birthday! ...which was over a month ago. So by pretty much any standard, this is highly belated, and I am so sorry, but happy (two) belated birthday(s), my dear, and thank you for being a highly excellent human and friend. <3
> 
> A few notes: as this involves a Jaime&Brienne friendship parallel to Cersei's wedding to Robert, some rather intense juggling of canon timelines is necessary. It's resulted in mostly-post-ASOS Jaime with mostly-pre-AGOT Cersei, though with roughly-AGOT ages, which obviously makes their relationship very different and very tricky. (I realized upon my third round of edits that Cersei comes off pretty unsympathetic as a result, so rest assured that even though she's the worst, I adore her, and if this were written from her perspective it'd be a very different story.) It's set in the roughly-modern US, because I am lazy; the politics involved are also very handwave-y, for the same reason. In fact, almost everything is handwave-y. The research I did for this fic consists of the following: 1. the line of presidential succession; 2. fencing terms. I hope that you will all forgive any inaccuracies past that, since I assume we're all here for the ridiculous wedding shenanigans anyway.
> 
> Finally, though this fic is first and foremost for Liz, it's also in part dedicated to [holograms](http://archiveofourown.org/users/holograms), [ionsquare](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ionsquare), and [peridium](http://archiveofourown.org/users/peridium), our fellow shippers and Nikolaj sisterwives (and extra shout-out to Mara for tracking down Sea Wolf's "Changing Seasons," the song from which the title originates). <333

It comes out impulsively when they’re finishing up case notes and preparing to leave for the night—Jaime turning to Brienne and blurting out, “Will you go to a wedding with me?”

Brienne, being Brienne, promptly drops the case file in her hand, scattering papers all over the ground. She’s too busy staring at Jaime to notice, though. “Will I—what?” she stammers out, her mouth hanging open in what’s either shock or horror.

Jaime’s already regretting saying anything, but it’s too late to backtrack now. “Next Saturday,” he explains reluctantly, leaning back against the desk for support. “My sister’s wedding. Maybe you’ve heard something about it?”

His tone is deliberately wry; the wedding of Cersei Lannister and Robert Baratheon has been wildly overhyped (if you ask Jaime, which of course no one did) as the social and political event of the decade, if not the century. It would be nice if he could spend a single day without it being thrown in his face half a dozen times before lunch, but hell, a lot of things would be nice that he’s not going to get, ever.

Brienne doesn’t respond, so Jaime keeps talking. “I said I’d bring a plus one, but I didn’t have anyone in mind at the time, and I can’t imagine a greater tragedy than a two hundred dollar plate of filet mignon going to waste.”

Still no reaction, even after a pause clearly meant for ironic laughter. Well, he’s always suspected that Brienne didn’t really have a sense of humor. “There might be vegetables, too,” he adds, though at this point he’s clearly just talking for the sake of hearing his own voice. “And even a cake, I’ve heard. At this rate, probably seven cakes.”

This, finally, seems to startle Brienne out of her bewilderment, and she leans down to pick up the scattered papers, her face flushing in that awkward, blotchy way it tends to. He bends down to try to help her, but she waves him off so ferociously that he actually takes a step back, crossing his arms and waiting for her to straighten again.

“You want me to go to your sister’s wedding with you?” she finally asks when she’s gathered the case and set it back on the desk. Her face is still flushed, but her stare is direct. As with every time she looks at him like that, Jaime wants to look away, but he always forces himself to hold her gaze.

“I’ve found in my studies of the English language that that is the generally accepted meaning when someone says ‘will you go to a wedding with me,’” Jaime replies, unable to repress the hint of laughter in his voice. “You do have to read between the lines, though, so I don’t blame you for missing it.”

Brienne glares at him, which Jaime is much more used to and so much more comfortable with. “Shut up,” she says, though without real heat. She says it to him a few dozen times a day, and rarely means it anymore. _“Why_ do you want me to go to a wedding with you?”

“We went over this, too,” Jaime reminds her. “Plus one, no one in mind, filet mignon—”

“But why _me?”_ Brienne puts in impatiently. “Why me as opposed to—” She breaks off, looking uncomfortable for a moment, and Jaime snorts, humorless.

“As opposed to, what, hiring a whore?” he asks, deliberately crude just to watch her flush again. “Sorry, I’ll be more delicate— _escort._ Is that what you think I’d need to resort to to find women?”

Brienne’s looking much more embarrassed than the situation warrants, especially as Jaime is just deliberately misinterpreting her words at this point. “That’s not what I meant,” she mumbles, not looking at him anymore. “I mean—you must know other women. Other women who are more—more your type. Why not any of them?”

Jaime could pretend to misunderstand that, too, but instead he looks at her. She’s from a reasonably wealthy family, and her father’s got enough political power to give her good social standing. Her personal reputation is pristine and her work record is exemplary. She’s, by any measure of the term, an excellent cop—a perfectly respectable profession—not to mention a pretty damn good person.

But, well, she’s ugly. There’s no denying that. She’s much taller and broader than most women (hell, she’s taller and broader than _Jaime_ , who’s not exactly small); she’s awkwardly shaped, flat-chested with huge hands and feet, and it’s made worse by her clothing choices, often too-large and hideously unimaginative in their practicality. She keeps her hair too short for any kind of style, so it generally lies in a messy blonde hay-like heap, her pale face is unevenly freckled, and her teeth are a little crooked, like she couldn’t afford braces as a child (which Jaime knows is patently untrue). Her only redeeming features are her eyes, which are huge and a bright, vivid blue, all the more striking for how pale her eyelashes are. And since she’s clearly aware that they’re the only beautiful thing about her, she tends to dress in blue to complement them, which makes her look a little less unfortunate overall.

In addition to her appearance, she’s a terrible conversationalist—self-righteous, not very quick with words, and almost impossible to get to laugh or relax. Essentially the exact opposite of Cersei, and exactly the sort of person Jaime had known from the start he would hate.

Except while he had at first, he definitely doesn’t hate her anymore. He still finds her frustrating, and they fight more often than not, but they’ve been partners ever since Brienne was promoted to detective, and the truth is that he’s gotten used to her. He knows she’s a good cop, and he can always talk to her, even if it can be like pulling teeth. He _knows_ her. He knows all about her rough childhood—how all she’d wanted was to go into the military or the police, how difficult it had been to be as unfeminine as she was—and she’s one of the few people who knows the whole story of his assassination of Aerys Targaryen, a crime for which he would have faced the death penalty if his father hadn’t pulled every string in his possession. In a strange way, she’s his best friend.

So while Brienne is technically right—Jaime knows other women, and scores of them, most of whom would fit in better at the wedding, many who would be willing to go with him (if only to be able to attend the damn wedding at all)—in a truly bizarre turn of fate, other than his sister, she appears to be the only woman he really _knows._ He wonders, either wryly or bitterly, what the hell that says about him as a person.

But there’s no way he’s actually going to say any of that to her. So instead he smirks—he’s good at that—and drawls, “Well, this is a refreshing change of pace. Everyone in the world is clamoring to hear about this wedding. You’ve got your own fucking invitation and you’re trying to get _out_ of going.”

“I’m not trying to get out of going,” Brienne says through gritted teeth. (This is more like their usual interactions; Jaime feels more at ease already.) “I’ll go. I appreciate you inviting me. I just want to know why you want me there.”

Jaime shrugs. “‘Want’ is a strong word. I just think you’d look better in a dress than Commissioner Bolton.” He pauses, then, studying Brienne critically. “I mean—barely. But still.”

Brienne rolls her eyes, then looks at him, a little too long and intensely. This is starting to edge into the uncomfortable again.

“Why did you say you would bring a plus one if you didn’t have anyone in mind?” she finally asks, very quietly, and Jaime wants to punch something because fuck, of _course_ she fucking knows. The way she’s looking at him—she’s thinking about him and Cersei.

It’s not something they’ve ever talked about, _ever,_ because there are limits to every friendship, but Jaime has always been pretty sure that she knows, anyway. Brienne’s not the sharpest tool in the shed, but she’s not an idiot, either.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Jaime says, forcing his voice even as he slowly flexes the fingers of his prosthetic hand; the damn thing’s been cramping worse than usual today. “You’re going to stop asking me about this— _anything_ about this—and if you don’t, I’m rescinding the invitation and I _will_ bring a damn escort.”

Brienne lets that hang in the air for an appropriate amount of time, then raises her hand. Jaime sighs, loudly and in deep irritation, and she lowers it as she speaks. “Can I ask where and when I should be arriving?”

“Would it stop you if I said no?” Jaime snaps, pocketing his badge and grabbing his coat. He’s tired of being here. He’s tired of talking about this, even with Brienne. He needs a fucking drink.

 

Tyrion does a literal spit-take, half of his wine spluttering out of his mouth, when Jaime tells him. “No,” he exclaims, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, scooting his stool forward, expression incredulous. _“No._ Not _her?_ Seriously?”

Jaime shoots him a wry grin. “What?” he asks, with exaggerated innocence. “What’s wrong with her?”

“Do you want an alphabetized _list?”_ There’s a huge grin on Tyrion’s own face as he reaches for the bottle to replace what he’s spilled.

Jaime’s grin goes more affectionate. There’s a lot that he can count on Tyrion for—intelligent, slightly amoral solutions to tricky problems, an excellent and unique witty comeback for any situation, a state-of-the-art entertainment room, sympathy about their shitty father—but by far the most reliable, and the easiest, is a consistent drinking partner. And one who always, always drinks more than he does, so he never has to feel like he’s had too much. It’s exactly the sort of thing brothers should be for.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Tyrion continues, taking a long drink from his topped-off glass, then topping it off again. “I think she sounds highly entertaining. I’m sure I’ll like her. But Cersei is going to lose her _shit.”_

“I know,” Jaime murmurs, taking a long drink of his own. It’s not like he hasn’t thought about that. More to the point, it’s not like he’s been able to stop thinking about it.

“Bad enough that you’re taking someone who isn’t among the most important people in the country,” Tyrion says, looking positively gleeful. “Bad enough that she’s a last-minute addition. Bad enough that she won’t get to dominate your attention all night. But that you’re bringing an ugly woman from work without high social status, on the most important and public day of her life—it’s like pissing-off-Cersei bingo. She’s going to be furious. She might actually stop paying attention to herself. She might even make a scene.” Tyrion sits back, grinning so widely it looks like his face might split. “This is going to be the best fucking wedding of all time.”

Jaime chokes out a laugh, attempting to glare at Tyrion and not quite succeeding. It’s good to be able to laugh about it. It’s good not to feel furious about it, or worse, hurt.

He hadn’t believed it when Cersei told him her plans for the marriage. It hadn’t been her idea, of course—their father had strongly recommended that she do it, and yes, it was true that Tywin Lannister almost always got what he wanted.  
But Jaime hadn’t really expected Cersei to go through with it. Not after everything they’d been through. Their parents’ anger when they’d first been caught together, sneaking around for years to avoid the press and their father alike, and—well, Jaime, at least, has never been with anyone else. (He’s been having his doubts, recently, that the same could be said of Cersei.)

Tywin had come up with the idea shortly after Robert Baratheon’s rapid ascent to power, from state mayoral cabinet member to presidential cabinet member to president, in the brief but bloody civil war that had deposed the Targaryen family. Baratheon had been sixth in line; no one had expected him to be president. Certainly it hadn’t seemed like he’d been very interested in the position—until it had come to him, of course.

Tywin had had a chance at the presidency himself, as the only still-living person before Baratheon in the succession, but he preferred himself where he was, leading the House. Better to manipulate from behind the scenes, to have his daughter become First Lady. It was a perfect political coup for the Lannisters, keeping them the most powerful family in the country without Tywin so much as breaking a sweat.

The Lannister children, though, had always had a habit of disappointing their father. For Tyrion, it had been the status quo ever since he was born with dwarfism, in addition to their mother’s fatal hemorrhage shortly afterward, despite the presence of the best medical care money could buy. Impossible for Tywin, who had truly loved his wife, not to blame Tyrion for that. (Ironically, though, Jaime had always thought that if Tywin was looking for an heir to his political empire, he really couldn’t do better than Tyrion, young as he was.)

Jaime, on the other hand, had been the golden child for years—good education, impeccable military record, career advancement unheard of for someone so young—till his assassination of Aerys Targaryen, which had effectively destroyed any political ambitions he might have had. To give Tywin credit, he had stood by Jaime throughout the charges of murder and treason, offering him the best legal help, bribing anyone he could possibly bribe, getting him off with only a short prison term, hefty reparations, and an enormous, permanent black mark on his record. The experience had changed Jaime, and his father’s desire to make him his heir would always remain unsatisfied. Jaime’s insistence on staying in law enforcement (not to mention the hand he’d lost in a particularly brutal prison brawl, lowering Tywin’s number of able-bodied sons to zero) had cooled their relationship considerably.

Cersei, meanwhile, had really only ever been expected to make a good marriage. Tywin was many things, but progressive was not one of them, and he never noticed how ambitious how only daughter was. Cersei was very good at smiling and nodding to their father’s requests, all the while doing exactly what she wanted. And Jaime had assumed, perhaps naively, that she would do exactly the same thing when their father suggested the marriage between her and Robert Baratheon.

They’d been seeing each other for nearly a year by then; the relationship, Cersei told Jaime, had also been Tywin’s idea, hatched while Jaime was still in prison but not put into motion till he’d been released. Apparently it had been a twofold explanation; it wouldn’t have been politic, according to Tywin, for Cersei to begin a high-profile relationship while her brother was serving time for murder, and Robert Baratheon himself, even after his ascent to presidency, had hardly been behaving like a man who wanted to settle down. By the time Jaime was out, though (released a year early on medical necessity, an extra year tacked onto his parole), the wheels were already in motion, and mere months after Baratheon’s reelection, his sister had made her first public appearance on his arm.

In hindsight, Jaime should have fucking known. Their father would never have gotten her involved in anything so politically important if it were meant to be anything less than permanent.

“What does Baratheon think of all this?” he asked, sullen, when Cersei first mentioned the marriage plans. They were in the apartment where he’d lived ever since his release, the first place that had ever been entirely his own. It was a few blocks away from the police headquarters and much smaller than what he could afford, but he didn’t need much space. Rather than making him claustrophobic, prison had made him dislike too-open spaces, and he found the barely-one-bedroom apartment comforting.

“You know he doesn’t care.” Cersei shrugged, falsely casual, but Jaime knew her too well for that. She was trying not to smile even as she picked idly at loose threads on his comforter. “After that whole business with Lyanna Stark, and how he acted his first few years in office—he probably knows that it makes sense for him to marry someone popular as soon as possible.”

Jaime scowled, studying her more closely. “And you’re actually going to do it? You’re really going through with this?”

“Why not?” Cersei shrugged again, and Jaime saw the smile flickering at the corner of her mouth now. “I always wanted to be in the White House. He’s more popular than politically astute and that won’t take him too far this time around, so he’ll probably listen to what I have to say. I’ll be in the middle of Washington, in the middle of everything. And he’s gorgeous. Beloved. A war hero. What do I have to lose?”

 _Me,_ Jaime wanted to say. _You would lose me. Does that mean anything to you?_ He was sure it did. He’d always been sure. He loved Cersei so much, with the sort of intensity he knew couldn’t be simply one-sided. She had always said she loved him, too. He had always believed her.

But he never would have considered marrying anyone else. He never would have tried to leave her like this. He had never had her ambition—he had never aspired to anything the way she had. All he’d wanted was to live his life as simply as possible, with Cersei in it. But she wanted so much more.

As if she could hear at least an echo of his thoughts, Cersei smiled at him, a softer smile than usual, reaching across the bed to rest a hand on his thigh. “This doesn’t have to mean anything,” she said, her smile turning sly, her voice lowering. “It doesn’t have to change anything between us.”

Jaime should have argued. He should have told her that she’d have a husband, that things would be different, that she was crossing a line. But he’d never been able to resist her, and so he hadn’t argued. He hadn’t said anything at all.

He’s barely seen Cersei since. He’s spent most of the time stewing, and it’s increased exponentially since the damn wedding became a Thing, a full-on social event. Up until the actual engagement had been announced, he’d genuinely thought she would still choose to let it go.

But she didn’t, and now she’s getting married, and Jaime is bringing Brienne to the wedding, and Cersei will just have to deal with that.

“I’m actually looking forward to this now,” Tyrion is saying, interrupting Jaime’s reverie. “I honestly can’t wait to meet this woman. She sounds like the anti-Cersei.”

Jaime snorts, instinctive. He’s always known that, always found it strange that he would care about both of them so much, in very different ways. 

“You’ll probably like her,” he says absently, pouring himself a new glass of wine. “She tells me to shut up a lot.”

“We have that in common,” Tyrion replies brightly. “And she’s going to piss Cersei off more than anything else you’ve done, probably. Two things in her favor. Unless she passes out topless on the cake, I’m bound to like her. No, wait—” He pauses, twirling his glass in mock thought. “That would actually make me like her much, much more. She’ll have spared me from being the one to do it.”

Jaime snorts again, taking a drink. “She’s not the type,” he informs Tyrion. “I’ll be amazed if she even shows up in a dress.”

Tyrion looks, if possible, even more delighted. “An ugly woman who doesn’t bullshit and doesn’t come from a real blue-blooded political family _not dressed properly for a presidential wedding_? Cersei is going to shit fucking _bricks.”_

She really is, Jaime thinks, and he’s not sure if it’s with dread or with relish.

 

He’s gotten the whole week of the wedding off from work, because that’s exactly the kind of grand fucking affair it is.

He hadn’t wanted that, of course. But Cersei asked, and he said no (with a great deal less bitterness than he’d wanted to, under the circumstances), and she asked him again, and he said no again, and so she’d gone to their father. And Tywin asked him, and Jaime (shockingly) still said no, so Tywin had spoken to the commissioner and gotten the week off for Jaime, and Jaime had enough breeding left to realize that objecting would have made every single person involved look bad, and he (reluctantly) supposed he didn’t want to that to happen, and so he went with it.

Tyrion, of course, gets to spend five days of that week at his moderately cushy apartment in D.C., not too far from where he’s getting his master’s degree in English (he may be practically disowned in all but name, but he’s still a Lannister and can do shit like that), because no one cares what Tyrion does. It’s hard to tell who hates him more, Cersei or Tywin; neither of them even _want_ him at the wedding, not really. Tywin only does for appearance’s sake, and if he hadn’t insisted, Cersei wouldn’t have even invited him.

But Jaime hasn’t been practically disowned in all but name, and Cersei insisted, and he really didn’t have a choice, so he comes along to the Hamptons, to their sprawling oversized estate where the wedding will take place. He wishes he could just stay in his suite the entire time, avoiding everyone, but there’s no way to completely block out the damn wedding, even if he hasn’t been called on every fucking hour to consult on some bullshit or another.

Which combination of flower arrangements look best? How should the guests be grouped—by family, by status, by age, by common interests? (Tywin has rented the surrounding estates—a few of them empty for the season, a few borrowed from their owners for a hefty price—to allow guests the full experience of the wedding. Jaime thinks he’ll be sick every time he thinks about it.) How do the hors d’oeuvres taste? In which order should they be served?

He really doesn’t care, and he tries to say so, but every time, he’s ignored, and if he says it any more vehemently, it’ll lead to a serious fight with his father that has nothing to do with the flowers or the food, and he doesn’t think he’s up for that, not when he still feels his gut clench like a fist whenever he so much as thinks about Cersei getting married. So he puts up with it. It’s only for a week.

And then it’s only for the rest of his life, every time he sees the two of them.

Jaime’s not sure if it would be better or worse if he actually liked Robert Baratheon—but he doesn’t, not particularly. He thinks he’s an idiot who was much better as a soldier than as Secretary of Defense, let alone as president. He’s the sort of man who likes to tease others by reopening old wounds, again and again, all in a lighthearted tone while swatting jocularly at people’s shoulders. Jaime can’t believe he became the leader of the country by nothing more than a fluke of war casualty, and he can’t believe the majority of the population actually likes the fucking bastard.

Fortunately, Jaime hasn’t had to see him much. He’s been off doing god knows what sort of masculine bonding thing former frat brothers like him do before their wedding with his best man, Ned Stark. (He and Jaime hate one another, mainly because Stark decided he hated Jaime and Jaime is never one to let others get the better of him in any capacity.)

He _has_ seen a lot of Cersei, but she’s been busy. Usually she’s yelling at someone or fidgeting with something, and if Jaime tries to talk to her, she snaps at him. He wonders if this is a bad sign, or if it’s normal for women to be this stressed before their weddings. He knows what Tyrion would say, and it keeps his spirits up for the duration of the week.

Brienne arrives a day before all of the other guests are due to start trickling in, because Jaime would literally lose his fucking mind otherwise. Tyrion suggested it last night; he and Jaime have been talking every day, because otherwise Jaime would already have lost his fucking mind. He doesn’t know what he would do if he couldn’t talk to Tyrion about all the ridiculous shit that’s been happening here.

“Well, I’ll be there in two days,” Tyrion told him, and though Jaime could hear the suppressed laughter in his voice, he was at least trying to suppress it, which Jaime appreciated. “If you can just hold on until then—”

“I’ll try,” Jaime muttered, “but I make no guarantees. Why can’t you get here sooner again?”

Tyrion’s voice was extremely wry when he responded. “Oh, you know, our dearest father told me not to show myself until the last possible minute before it would start to look strange that everyone but me was there. So that—you know—the impression of the golden, gorgeous Lannisters would be untarnished for as long as possible. He didn’t use those words exactly, but you get the gist.”

Jaime did, unfortunately. He knew that he’d already tarnished the golden, gorgeous Lannisters with his prosthetic—never mind that it was the best possible model, as close to a true hand as money could buy, his father would never stop resenting the fact that he no longer has the perfect eldest son—but at least he was still ninety-five percent whole. “You could still come. Tell him I told you to.”

Tyrion snorted. “Well, that won’t cause a rift in the family whatsoever. No, no, I couldn’t do that. And you know Cersei doesn’t want me there, either, so if I am, she’ll cause a scene if I arrive, and you know I hate doing that to her.”

“Oh, yes,” Jaime replied—his turn to be wry—and Tyrion snorted again.

“I don’t want to start the weekend that way. I’m sure there’ll be plenty of time for that later, and I don’t want to use up Dad’s already vastly limited supply of patience with me so quickly. But—and I can’t stress enough how important this reason is—I also really, really, _really_ don’t want to be there.”

Jaime laughed reluctantly, shaking his head. “Fine. _Fine._ I’ll try to deal with it. But it would be nice to have a single person in this entire fucking— _estate_ —who doesn’t give a shit about this wedding. Someone I could actually have a real conversation with.”

Tyrion actually went quiet at that, the silence that generally foretold that he was thinking about something very deeply, and said after a moment, “What about Brienne?”

“What about Brienne?” Jaime asked blankly, and Tyrion laughed.

“I _mean,_ ask her to come early. She likes you; she’ll probably do it. She doesn’t realize what a fucking nightmare it’ll be.”

Jaime couldn’t quite muster a reaction to adequately convey how appalling the idea was. “I can’t ask her to do that. It _would_ be a fucking nightmare. She’ll be running before the first guest gets here.”

“She’ll barely see Dad or Cersei,” Tyrion pointed out. “The fuckery will be at a fever pitch. It’s probably good for her to get an idea of the surroundings before it’s all underway, you know? It might even be fun. And if not, hey, she’ll probably think it’s worth it to conserve your sanity, anyway.”

That was what convinced Jaime to call Brienne and ask her—beg her, really; he doesn’t have much pride where Brienne is concerned—to come tomorrow instead of the day before the wedding. He told her he’d handle changing her bus ticket. He told her he’d pay for every single extra thing she wanted. He told her he’d do whatever paperwork she was dreading most when they went back to work next week.

And whatever it was that had convinced her, she’d agreed, and so the next morning over breakfast, Jaime casually mentions that his date—they know his date, Brienne, don’t they, Senator Tarth’s daughter, his police partner—will be arriving a day early, within a couple of hours, actually. Cersei pauses her frantic typing to whatever very important cog in the wedding machine to give him an incredulous stare, and Tywin peers at him for a moment over his newspaper, eyes narrowed, as if he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.

After a moment, though, he turns back to the financial pages, murmuring, “Give her whatever room you think best. At least you’ll have something to entertain you.”

After that, of course Cersei can’t raise any kind of complaint, though it’s obvious she wants to. She glares at Jaime hard enough that she’s clearly considering saying something—but, of course, her phone buzzes with some sort of much more urgent wedding business, and she turns to it with another look at Jaime, the _we’ll discuss this later_ look. Under the circumstances, he highly doubts it.

Brienne arrives two hours later, and Jaime sends one of the many fleets of shuttles provided for the guests to go get her, so she’s looking a little shell-shocked when she arrives at the doorstep of Casterly, the Lannister estate.

“Thank fucking God you’re here,” Jaime says without preamble when she arrives, clapping a hand to her shoulder, fervently enough that were it anyone less strong, it might bruise. “Sorry the place is so small. And _messy.”_

Brienne shoots him a look that says that she doesn’t appreciate his sarcasm one bit, a look with which he’s very familiar. (Maybe she won’t get along with Tyrion as well as he hopes.) He reaches for her bag—an automatic, perfunctory gesture—and she swats him away, and he leads her inside.

“I’ve never seen anyplace so—enormous,” she says as they head to her room (in the guest wing of the main estate, reserved for the most important arrivals, and of course the single date being brought by a member of the family).

“You’ve been to Luray Caverns,” Jaime points out; they’d impulsively visited on a trip gathering information about a drug trafficking case six months ago, a rare moment of frivolity in both of their lives. “It’s probably comparable.”

Brienne rolls her eyes, but her gaze pulls back to the high ceilings. “Cavernous is a good description of it,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “It’s full of things, but…”

Jaime feels a little uncomfortable at how neatly she’s captured the feeling of Casterly, of every single home his father has owned. It felt less like that while their mother was alive, but now everyplace he’s ever lived with his father feels too large, too looming, too full of Tywin Lannister and too empty of anything else, anything warm and affectionate. It’s another reason why his chosen apartment errs on the side of too small rather than too large.

He ignores this, though, instead letting Brienne take in the mansion as they walk to her room. When they reach it, he opens the door with a dramatic flourish and ushers her in. “Do you want—a tour, or food, or—”

“I think I’ll be fine for now.” She sets her suitcase onto the ground, hangs up her garment bag in the closet (so she _is_ wearing a dress to the wedding, Jaime notes with some relief), and looks around at the room. It’s not really _her,_ too orderly and pristine and sophisticated where Jaime knows she’s messy, without much sense of style—but it’s furnished neutrally enough to look like a hotel room, albeit an extremely classy one.

“I even have my own bathroom?” Brienne exclaims, investigating further. Jaime just chuckles, tempted to follow her in just to watch her face when she sees the size of it.

“We provide everything for our guests here,” he drawls instead, and is rewarded with her scowl when she reemerges from exploring the oversized bathroom.

“This is the most unnecessarily excessive room I’ve ever been in,” she says bluntly, and Jaime can’t help bursting out laughing.

Brienne’s scowl deepens, the beginnings of her splotchy flush appearing around her ears. “What?” she demands, plopping her suitcase onto the bed with more force than strictly necessary.

Jaime shakes his head, slowly. “You are the only person on earth,” he says, still grinning from ear to ear, “who would arrive at the estate of one of the richest men in the country, for an all-expenses-paid weekend trip to witness the wedding of the _president,_ and complain about the fact that all of it is _too much_ before so much as a ‘thank you’ or ‘how exciting to be here.’”

The flush is crawling down the rest of Brienne’s face, now, and her expression is stiff. “I didn’t mean to—to imply that I’m not grateful,” she says through her teeth, looking horribly embarrassed now. “Of course I—appreciate being here, and you—you and your family—ought to spend your money however you see fit—”

“Oh, god, please don’t even pretend,” Jaime says, waving a dismissive hand at her. “You’re awful at it. I’m not saying I _mind._ I’m actually grateful. Thank fucking Christ I’ve got someone here who’ll be honest and not fall all over themselves to talk about how incredible this is and try to ingratiate themselves with my father.” He grins at her; she tentatively returns the smile, and he feels better than he has all week.

Brienne rubs absently at the back of her neck. “I’m going to change,” she says. “I don’t suppose this place has a firing range?”

It doesn’t, fortunately, because if it did Jaime would have been seriously tempted to murder at least half a dozen people by now, beginning and ending with Robert Baratheon himself. “No,” he says, then adds, very casually, “but we do have fencing equipment and a piste.”

Brienne lights up like he’s told her Christmas has come early. She didn’t have his old-money upbringing, with its assortment of highly impractical skills, but out of personal interest she did learn how to fence at a young age. The two of them have been sparring almost as long as they’ve known one another; they’re at similar skill levels and they both find it calming.

“Give me a minute,” she says. “I’ll be right down.”

 

It’s not until half an hour into sparring with Brienne that Jaime realizes that this is exactly what he’s needed.

He’s always loved swords, their particular combination of grace and deadliness. He loves guns, too, but they’re so simple, so brutal. There’s much more mastery required with a sword, and he likes their duality of purpose, either for show or in earnest. He’s always preferred them in earnest.

There’s enough of an assortment of fencing kits on the estate that Jaime finds ones for himself and Brienne easily. (He doesn’t know if they ever get used now, but they’re all kept in pristine condition anyway. Part of keeping up appearances.) There aren’t as many swords as there used to be, but they’ve been updated, fitting his adult size and stature. (He can’t remember when the last time he fenced here was—not long after he was released, two, three years ago? And still the swords are kept up here for him.)

He selects two épées from the wall, knowing Brienne’s taste in swords enough to be able to offer it to her and have her test the weight, then smile at him. The anticipation has already been humming in Jaime’s blood even before he put his whites on, before he actually held the sword in his hand.

It doesn’t take either of them long to get ready, used to it as they are. They’re accustomed enough to one another that they don’t need to do anything but bow, quick and formal, before launching into the match.

They work well together. They have established patterns of attack and defense, dancing around one another as if they’re waltzing rather than sparring. Brienne’s usual ungainliness is completely masked by the grace with which she wields her sword, and Jaime has never felt more complete than he does when sparring with her, false hand be damned.

They spend a minute in their usual routine, then start to get creative. Brienne launches a new pattern of attack at him, ferocious enough to put him on the defensive, but he’s always been quicker on his feet than she is, so he improvises back enough to force her to switch to defense. But she’s more stubborn than he is, so soon enough she’s advancing on him again, and the first point is hers.

They continue like this for an hour (Jaime’s lost track of who’s won more matches, but keeping score was never the point of this) until they’re both breathing heavily. Brienne’s hair is sticking sweatily to her face when she removes her mask, and Jaime’s lungs feel like they’re on fire as he huffs in long gulps of air. 

Both of them are rejuvenated, though, and grinning stupidly at one another despite their obvious exertion. And Jaime makes a mental note to buy Tyrion some insanely expensive whiskey for suggesting that he ask Brienne to come early.

 

The other guests begin to arrive the next day, which means that Jaime begins to avoid them immediately.

Through a heroic combination of overt lying and Brienne naturally keeping to herself, especially in unfamiliar surroundings, Jaime manages to keep Tywin and Cersei away from her. When he’d first told his father who his date would be, Tywin had expressed some cursory interest in meeting her, and of course he knew Cersei would find it important to establish her authority over every single person under her domain. But Tywin doesn’t find Brienne important enough to merit the effort of seeking her out beforehand, connection to his older son or not, and Cersei’s been so caught up in wedding details that even Jaime, let alone Brienne, has barely seen her, so the upshot of it is that Jaime’s been spared the mind-boggling awkwardness of having any combination of Brienne and multiple Lannisters together. He knows that the time will come sooner or later, but he prefers later, and he prefers it to be when Tyrion is here. For one, he wants to introduce Brienne to Tyrion first, and for another, Tyrion is always good for making family situations less awkward. (Well, that isn’t strictly true. He’s always good for making them even more awkward, but to a point where it becomes comical rather than tragic, and he’s also good at deflecting focus from other issues to make the situation entirely about him.)

Brienne has no interest in hobnobbing with the guests that are starting to arrive, and the ones that are coming early are either desperate to improve their status or very important, but not so important that Tywin couldn’t convince them to drop everything and arrive early. Either option is grossly unattractive to Jaime, so he busies himself as much as possible with staying out of everyone’s way.

Tyrion arrives in the late afternoon, only a couple of hours before the rehearsal dinner, and Jaime is so relieved that he greets him with about six variations on curse words and a solid thump to the back. Tyrion grins up at him, as he’s directing his valet to carry his bags up to his room. (He has a valet—in this, the twenty-first century—because that’s just the sort of person Tyrion is. The man’s called Bronn, he’s tall, solid, and middle-aged, and when he introduces them Tyrion makes a “brains and Bronn” joke so awful it doesn’t bear remaining in Jaime’s memory.)

Shortly after Tyrion gets to his rooms (all of the siblings have a whole suite of rooms in the estate; most of Jaime’s are currently going unused) and after he dismisses Bronn to unpack and sort his things, he turns to Jaime and grins widely. “So. Let’s have her, then.”

Jaime arches an eyebrow in mock unconcern. “I’m sorry, who?”

Tyrion rolls his eyes, reaching up to smack Jaime in the chest. “Your fourth grade math teacher. _Brienne,_ you idiot. I want to meet her.”

Jaime can’t resist a grin as he widens his eyes. “Really? Right now? But you’ve just arrived. Surely you want to freshen up—take some time to look around, see what you’ve missed in the old house—maybe greet your beloved family, who have missed you more than words can say—I thought I heard Father mention _just_ the other day—”

“I’m a terrible influence on you,” Tyrion deadpans. “I never thought I’d say that, but it’s true. Seriously, any and all other entertainments this place has to offer pale in the light of me meeting this woman. I’ve been looking forward to this all week. Can I please do so? Now?”

And as Jaime’s been looking forward to introducing them anyway, he really can’t argue.

It goes well, or as well as anything involving Tyrion being Tyrion can go. He grins up at Brienne affably when they arrive at her room and says, “Good lord. You _are_ ugly, aren’t you?”

Brienne rears back, her expression halfway between hurt and incredulous, until Jaime laughs, shaking his head. She turns big eyes onto him, shifting more fully to hurt, until he waves her off. “Calm down. He doesn’t mean it like that. Tyrion forgets that not everyone enjoys being told harsh truths within two seconds of acquaintance.”

“I do tend to do that,” Tyrion admits cheerfully. “Did I offend you? I’m sorry. You may have noticed I’m kind of an ugly bastard myself. People who try to insult you usually get really confused when you’ve already accepted the worst things about yourself.” 

“Tyrion’s life philosophy,” Jaime says, and Tyrion adds, “Not that being ugly is the worst thing about me, by a long shot,” and Brienne stares rather blankly at both of them until Jaime laughs again, shaking his head.

“Come on—let’s go eat.” He’s feeling much more buoyant, even with the prospect of the rehearsal dinner on the horizon, now that he’s in the company of two of his favorite people. An evening of Tyrion making assorted unsavory comments and Brienne not knowing how to react to them suddenly sounds like the best possible plan.

 

That ends up being pretty much exactly how it goes. The rehearsal is torture, of course, but between Tyrion’s quiet unsavory remarks and Brienne’s alternating expressions of bewilderment and censure, Jaime manages to get through it. They retreat to Tyrion’s rooms after and spend the night consuming an absurd amount of food and an only slightly less absurd amount of alcohol, and they laugh endlessly about the most minor things, even Brienne, and they linger for so long that by the time Jaime finally heads back to his own rooms, he’s mostly sobered up.

When he sees that his bedroom isn’t as unoccupied as he left it, he’s instantly the rest of the way there.

“Cersei,” he says, resignation heavy in his tone. He wasn’t expecting her, but now that she’s here—on his bed, still in her rehearsal dress (fucking hell), hair in loose waves nearly to her waist, legs tucked demurely beneath her—he doesn’t know why. He should have known she wouldn’t be able to stay away, even with everything going on. He should have known she would want to stake her claim.

She smiles at him, a small, coy twist of her mouth, and it doesn’t dim even as he asks, blunt and clearly unhappy, “What are you doing here?”

“We haven’t had a moment alone together in weeks and that’s how you greet me?” She untucks her legs, allowing Jaime to see that she’s at least gotten rid of her stockings; the dress is red as blood, a sheath that falls off one pale shoulder and ends halfway up her thigh on one side, just past her knee on the other. Jaime’s sure it costs as much as the gross national product of some small countries, because Cersei doesn’t do anything halfway. The wedding dress probably doubled the national debt.

“You’re getting married tomorrow,” Jaime says. He’s past cutting corners with her. Even though he notices how the dim light of the lamp on his bedside table illuminates the gold of her hair and the sharpness of her cheekbones, even though he sees how perfectly shaped her shoulder and thigh and breasts revealed by the dress are, even though she’s arranged herself in the most inviting way she knows how—even as he knows at least some if not all of him will always want her, no matter what—he’s done. He has to be.

Cersei purses her lips, clearly not pleased with the direction of this conversation. “It’s meaningless. A formality. You know I couldn’t care less about him.”

“A pleasant change from your feelings towards the rest of the world.” Jaime turns on the overheard light, taking a small, cruel pleasure in Cersei’s instinctive flinch at the sudden brightness, and kicks his shoes off. “And about him, it seems. Weren’t you telling me how gorgeous he was? How he was going to listen to you, give you the political power you always wanted, make all your dreams come true?”

“He called me Lyanna, our first time,” Cersei says, her tone as blunt as Jaime’s was a moment ago, and against his will he turns back towards her. The coyness has left her face; her mouth is pressed together, a single hard line. “He was so drunk he could barely get it up, and he called me by a dead woman’s name when he finally managed to fuck me.”

Jaime has to admit it shocks him. For a moment he’s angry for Cersei, and if Robert Baratheon were there, Jaime would freely have hit him in the face for it. But then he hears it again— _our first time, when he was fucking me_ —and it’s hard to think of anything but Cersei sleeping with another man.

He wonders, briefly, if Baratheon is the only one. How can she act like nothing’s going to change between them, claim her marriage is meaningless, when she can stand before him talking about her infidelity like it doesn’t tear his heart out?

“Did you hear what I said?” Cersei demands, indignation bright on her face.

Jaime opens his mouth to respond, but what comes out instead is, “Was there ever anyone else?”

She blinks at him, clearly taken by surprise. “What?”

“Anyone else,” Jaime repeats, slowly, deliberately. He takes a step closer to her, secure in his position on the offensive. “Did you ever fuck anyone else, apart from me and Baratheon?”

Understanding, followed by outrage, sparks across Cersei’s features. “How is that any of your business?”

The question is so absurd that Jaime has to take a minute to process it. “How the fuck is it _not_ my business?”

“We aren’t _together,_ Jaime,” she says, as if the idea is so absurd it hardly bears voicing aloud, as if her denial doesn’t burn a hole right through his chest. “We’re not _dating._ What I do with other men has nothing to do with you, or us. I’ve never asked you if you’ve fucked any other women.”

“Because I _haven’t._ I never have.” Jaime spares a moment to think about what Cersei would have done if he had; he’s sure she would have been angry, if confronted with evidence of it. She would have wanted to harm any other woman who had Jaime’s attention. The only reason she’s never asked has to be her certainty that he never would. “I don’t understand how you can and pretend that nothing has to change between us.”

Cersei’s lips press together again. “I don’t understand how you can’t separate the two. You’re the only one who means anything to me. Why does it matter who else I fuck?”

It’s like they’re speaking a different language. Jaime doesn’t understand how the two _can_ be separated. He can’t imagine being with anyone but Cersei, and he had thought—until the past year, had been _sure_ —that she’d felt the same way. Everything about this marriage has made him reconsider that, though. Everything about it has made him wonder if this is really what he wants.

He doesn’t know what he’ll do without Cersei in his life; he doesn’t know if he can let go of her. But maybe he owes it to himself to try finding out.

“You’re getting married tomorrow, Cersei,” Jaime says, very slowly. “That may not mean anything to you, but it means something to me.”

Cersei’s expression freezes before shifting to a scoff, more disdainful than almost any look she’s leveled at Jaime before. “Let me get this straight,” she says, slow and deliberate and thick with sarcasm. “Sleeping with a married woman—breaking the sanctity of marriage—is past your precious moral code, but incest is perfectly fine?”

“I don’t need a lecture about morality from you,” Jaime replies coolly. “You’re not a good person. I’ve never cared about that before. Hell, I still don’t. Burn the rest of the world to the fucking ground for all I care. But I always thought you’d be loyal to me, no matter what.”

Cersei’s face is scornful for another moment. Then it melts to something softer, warmer, the sort of affection that she’s only ever shown Jaime. “This doesn’t mean anything,” she says again, taking a step closer to Jaime. He lets her approach, even lets her trace a hand down his arm. She’s even more beautiful close up; Jaime doesn’t think he’ll ever stop feeling that instinctive jolt of pleasure at the perfection of her features. “You know you’re the only one I’ll ever really care about. Why does anything have to change, Jaime?”

“You tell me,” Jaime says, keeping his voice level, keeping his eyes on Cersei’s face. He doesn’t jerk away from her or shudder with revulsion. He knows he’ll always want her. He knows he’ll always feel the thrill of looking at her face, so similar to his, peering up at him in that soft way, eyes full of desire. “You’re the one who changed things.”

Cersei blinks, then tilts her head, a sardonic smile sliding across her face. “There _is_ someone else, isn’t there? That hideous mountain of a woman you brought here? Really, Jaime, are you trying to make a point?”

Ah, Jaime knew that one was only a matter of time. He tries not to tense, won’t give Cersei the satisfaction of knowing that she can get to him this way. “The point of bringing a plus one to your wedding so that the rumors about us fucking won’t steal the spotlight from you? I would have thought you’d support that one.”

Cersei rolls her eyes. “Oh, please. I know what you’re trying to do. Couldn’t you have picked someone better? Is she going to wear her _uniform_ tomorrow?”

Jaime doesn’t bother dignifying that with a real answer. “Does it matter?” he asks, tilting his mouth into a wry not-quite-smile. “Everyone’s going to be looking at you. Wasn’t the plan to be so blindingly spectacular that nothing else is relevant?”

She smiles at him, pitying, like she’s years older than him and infinitely wiser. It infuriates him, but he still won’t show it. “You’re only trying to make me jealous,” she says, in the smug, superior tone Jaime’s heard her use a thousand times. Never to him, though. “It’s so transparent. You don’t have to do it, you know.”

“I’m the one walking away from you, Cersei,” Jaime points out. “You’re the one marrying someone else. Why would I want to make you jealous?”

Cersei purses her lips, the benign amusement falling from her face. Her gaze turns steely as she looks up at him, and she says, very softly, “Last chance, Jaime.”

He stares right back at her. He doesn’t have much in his life anymore, and he’s never had have much in the way of morals, but he knows he doesn’t want to do this anymore. And he knows it isn’t over yet, but he doesn’t think he’ll change his mind. It has nothing to do with Robert Baratheon or with Brienne or even with Cersei—and everything to do with Jaime himself.

“Go to bed, Cersei,” he says, quiet but firm. “You have a big day tomorrow.”

Her eyes narrow, and her lips press together, and she holds his gaze for a long, cool moment—but he doesn’t flinch, and he doesn’t back down, and when she leaves his room and closes the door behind him, closes the door on things ever being the same between them, he doesn’t regret it.

 

The wedding is, in a word, excruciating.

Jaime hadn’t really expected anything else, especially after that scene last night. But from the minute he puts on his tuxedo, through the preparations, everyone bustling around making sure the entire wedding party is in place, keeping the paparazzi in relative order, making sure the fucking bouquets have their petals all facing the right way, through having to watch the gasp of the crowd and the flash of cameras when Cersei walks down the aisle in her absurdly priced, monstrously bejeweled, ten-foot-trained wedding dress, through standing mere feet away as she and Robert Baratheon speak unnecessarily ornate words he’s positive neither of them mean in the slightest, through averting his eyes for their ceremonial kiss and not looking back as the crowd erupts into cheers and the camera lights flash with even more intensity, through being detained from reaching the reception by reporters and family members alike, all wanting to tell him how proud he must be and how beautiful Cersei looks, isn’t she just glowing—

Suffice it to say that when he finally does make it to the reception, Jaime makes a beeline to the bar. The first shot of whiskey he downs is the best thing to happen to him all day.

 _Open bar. Thank god._ If he thought that Cersei had even the slightest shred of human compassion and decency left in her, he would have thought that maybe she thought to do it because she knew how hard this day would be for him. Unfortunately, that would have required her to think of someone beside herself while planning, something he’s pretty sure is inconceivable.

She hasn’t so much as looked at him once the entire day.

Jaime orders another shot, downs that one too, then makes the third one a double and sits at the bar to make it last a little longer.

That’s where Tyrion finds him half an hour later, once more people have trickled into the reception. The band hasn’t started playing yet, but some sort of ambient music is being pumped in; a few reporters are snapping pictures of the room (Jaime assumes they’ll be shuffled off eventually), and people are beginning to sit down at the small tables lining the room or stand in corners chatting. Jaime’s enjoying the relative solitude and dreading the moment someone tries to talk to him.

Tyrion’s presence, though, is welcome, especially after he orders a double of scotch for himself and Jaime before saying a word. The two of them clink glasses, take a drink, and let out identical sounds of satisfaction at very good liquor at their father’s expense.

It makes Jaime grin, something he didn’t think he was capable of doing at this point. “Fuck today,” he says, surprising himself by sounding almost cheerful about it. He doesn’t think about whether a reporter might be lurking around waiting for that particular unsavory soundbyte. All he wants is to tell the truth to the only member of his family who has never let him down.

“Fuck today,” Tyrion agrees, much more brightly. “Swear to god I’m amazed Cersei could even hold her head up with those fucking rocks on her tiara. The flash is going to catch their glare instead of her face in all the pictures—serves her right.”

Jaime snorts, but it’s half-hearted. His rejection of Cersei is still too raw; he’s not quite ready to be so flippant about her yet.

Tyrion, as always, seems to sense that, and skirts away to a safer topic. “Have you seen the gold fucking thread in all the ribbon decorations? The actual gold fucking thread?”

Jaime snorts again, more genuinely this time. “Is it really?” he asks, grateful to be able to slip disdain back on. “I didn’t think even Dad would be quite that ostentatious.”

“You _didn’t?”_ Tyrion’s expression is eloquent over the rim of his glass. “This is Dad we’re talking about. He would have tried to get Cersei married in gold if he could have gotten away with it. Can’t have anything that isn’t traditional, though.”

Jaime shakes his head, heavy. Doesn’t he know it. That’s why he was standing up next to Robert Baratheon—rumors or no rumors, the bride’s brother had to be a groomsman—next to Robert’s own stone-faced brother and the equally stone-faced pole-up-his-ass Ned Stark, who couldn’t hide his open disdain for Jaime. Fortunately Jaime had done his best not to pay attention to a single thing, probably rounding out the bridal party of stone faces as a result. They would all match—Cersei and Tywin would be so proud.

(The expectation of brothers as groomsmen, of course, didn’t extend to Tyrion, nor to Robert’s other brother, who was as gay as the day was long and had come with a male date. He’d made a good choice—Jaime actually recognized the man, a decorated soldier from another obscenely rich family—but it was still another man. Gay and deformed, he’d thought wryly; the bride and groom even had matching brotherly disappointments.)

“The food better be as good as the booze,” Tyrion says, looking longingly over towards the door Jaime assumes is to the kitchen. There are a few butlers with small plates milling around; Jaime hasn’t been near them, but he assumes they contain hors d’oeuvres so tiny they’re barely worth the effort. The real meal will come later, once everyone arrives and has been seated.

“Nothing but the best,” Jaime mutters, downing his drink, contemplating ordering a fifth. At this rate, he’ll be too drunk for a ceremonial dance with Cersei. Hell, he doesn’t know if he’s even going to be forced into that; appearances are important, but they can’t have the two of them appearing _too_ close, after all.

Tyrion eyes Jaime’s glass, not judgmental, just observant. Jaime glares at him, and Tyrion chuckles, unoffended. “Have you seen your date yet? Or has it been alcohol tunnel vision all day?”

Again, Tyrion knows him much too well. Jaime’s barely thought of Brienne all day; he’d texted her shortly after waking up, telling her as brusquely as possible that he’d see her at the reception and that she should let someone in the staff know if she needed help getting ready, and then he’d turned his phone off. It was too depressing, trying to focus on carrying out the duties of the wedding without punching anybody in the face. It’s been a full-time job, and the alcoholic light at the end of the tunnel is all that’s been keeping him going. 

No one has expected him to be with his date yet; considering he was in the wedding party, he hasn’t had to sit with Brienne or make an appearance with her. He can’t remember who he’s talked to or what exactly he’s said to them, but he’s sure it’s been something generic—that he’s here with a coworker (true), that she’s lovely (false), that she’s very excited to be here (probably false, but who knows?), and that he can’t wait to spend time with her at the reception (actually true).

The only one he’s been spending time with at the reception so far, though, is his glass, and now, briefly, Tyrion. He hasn’t seen Brienne all day. He hasn’t even had a chance to wonder how she might look.

“Have you seen her?” he asks, and Tyrion nods, a shit-eating grin on his face. “She’s not actually in her uniform, is she?”

It’s clearly a joke, but Tyrion positively cackles in response, actually throwing his head back with the force of his laughter. “Not even close, brother. Oh, you’re going to fucking _love_ this. Jaime, you know I don’t say this lightly, but this may make this entire day worth it for you.”

Jaime raises both eyebrows. With that sort of introduction, he can’t imagine how she must look. He’s tempted to press further, but Tyrion’s got a gleeful look on his face that tells Jaime he’s not likely to say much more.

“Fine,” Jaime mutters, waving the bartender over for some water. He’s already feeling unsteady; he should probably pace himself. Tempting as it is to spend the entire reception blackout drunk, there’ll be enough cameras there to make it a truly terrible idea. And he owes Brienne more than that, either way. “Be like that. I’ll see her soon enough.”

It takes a while, though, as people trickle in at varying speeds. He sees a lot of people he can identify but doesn’t give a shit about, and he sees Cersei and Robert (who’s drunk already, of course; Cersei’s smile is beginning to look more than a little forced), and he sees their father (for whom Tyrion’s presence seems to be enough of a deterrent to approaching, thank God), and he sees a lot of paparazzi, and he seriously reconsiders the blackout drunk idea.

There are also a fair amount of people that Jaime’s pretty sure haven’t been invited; this hall is big enough to absorb gatecrashers (probably by design), otherwise it would start to look extremely crowded. Tyrion makes unsavory comments about some of their outfits, making Jaime snort with laughter and confirming his desire to avoid every single other person at the reception.

Well, every single other person except one. But she’s not here yet.

And then, she is.

Jaime doesn’t recognize her, at first—he’s just confused as to why Tyrion is nudging him in the direction of the tall woman in blue. He has a moment to observe her objectively— _excessively_ tall, honestly, and muscular, not unattractive but not really his type, looking somewhat uncomfortable and out of place as she looks around the room—and then it hits him like a fucking freight train that this is _Brienne._

He’s never seen her in anything but work clothing, basic shirts and pants, before. It’s not quite a movie-level transformation; it’s still recognizably Brienne, awkward and ungainly and with the sort of figure that could never wear a dress with the aplomb of someone like Cersei. But the one she’s got on fits her well, flattering what figure she has, with some sort of wispy little sleeves that make her shoulders look less broad and her muscular arms less bulky. And it’s the exact color of her eyes.

Jaime didn't even realize till now that he knew, by heart, the exact color of Brienne’s eyes.

He’s still sort of slack-jawed with shock when Tyrion enthusiastically waves her over; she visibly relaxes upon spotting them and heads in their direction. She’s still looking out of place, and walking even less gracefully than she usually does—is she wearing _heels?_ Christ, no wonder she seems to be towering even more.

“Are you wearing heels?” is the first thing that Jaime blurts when she approaches, because he has always been a very normal person with his priorities well in order.

Brienne blinks at him, bewildered. Her face looks a little unfamiliar to him; the expression of blank confusion is pure Brienne, but he’s never seen her wear makeup before, either. It’s not a lot, but it softens the usual ugliness of her face and emphasizes her eyes even more than the dress alone does. Her hair is actually styled for once, too, smooth and layered around her face rather than the usual thin, loose flyaways.

“What he means,” Tyrion puts in, and Jaime hasn’t looked away from Brienne yet but he assumes he’s probably got that stupid grin back on, “is that you look nice.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Jaime snaps, starting to turn away to glare at his brother, but stopping when he sees Brienne’s face fall (Christ, she’s always been awful at hiding her instinctive reaction to anything). “I mean—Jesus. Not that it’s not _true._ But what I meant was what I fucking said. Are you wearing heels? I’ve never seen you wear heels. Are you going to be taller than me when I stand up?”

“She’s already taller than you,” Tyrion points out helpfully. Jaime briefly considers punching him in the face.

“They’re not very high,” Brienne finally says, looking down self-consciously. Her dress goes almost to the floor, the skirt draping enough that Jaime couldn’t see the shoes until she pokes a foot out, simple white pumps with low, square-shaped heels. “I don’t wear heels very much. And never to work,” she adds with a little scowl, clearly meant to indicate _so when would you have seen me in heels before, moron?_ (Jaime has gotten very good at mentally translating what Brienne says to what she actually means. Or, more accurately, his interpretation of what she actually means.)

She’s also wearing earrings, he notices; he supposes he has to have seen her in those before, but they’re deep blue, also offsetting her eyes. And she’s got a necklace on, some sort of silvery chains woven into a thick rope. Not too delicate, which would never have worked for her, but pretty. It suits her.

“Well, you look great,” Tyrion says, and this time Jaime does turn to him to confirm that the stupid grin is, in fact, in full evidence. “And I’m sure my very articulate and highly complimentary brother would agree if he weren’t so—well. You probably know even better than I do.”

Brienne snorts, then looks embarrassed, but Jaime appreciates it. It’s still her, still self-conscious, honest to a fault, easily flustered, far-too-good Brienne. Despite the setting, despite her outfit, it’s still her. At least he can still count on that.

On a day like today, the presence of something he can count on means more than usual. It’s good to know that Brienne, who’s usually one of those things, is still one of them. Might always be one of them.

“Enjoying the festivities?” Tyrion asks, a little too cheerfully. Jaime glares at him and finishes his water, waving off the bartender’s approach. He’s probably had enough for now.

Brienne’s usual tendency to blush in huge, unattractive splotches is still presenting itself, much to Jaime’s delight. It looks better than it usually does, surrounded by the temporary finery, but it’s still pretty hideous. “It was a lovely ceremony,” she says, but her tone is more than a little dubious. She’s always been a god-awful liar.

Tyrion lets out a hoot of laughter, and Brienne flounders a little more. “There are a—a lot of important people here. They look like they’re enjoying themselves.”

It’s Jaime’s turn to snort now. It’s a perfectly politic statement, factually accurate and absolutely value-neutral. He’s actually a little impressed.

Brienne’s gaze flits to him, and she smiles, a small, crooked thing that he finds himself returning, to his surprise. He didn’t think anything other than Tyrion and the prospect of alcohol could make him smile today—but then again, this was why he invited Brienne in the first place. (He thought that he invited her because she’s the only other woman he knows, because he didn’t want Cersei to think he was pining, lost without her, because it was an easy and uncomplicated decision. But it turns out none of those are as important as the fact that she makes him, on one of the worst days of his life, feel like the best version of himself.)

He can’t quite bring himself to tell her in so many words that she looks nice, or to actually ask her to dance—but he does incline his head towards the dance floor, where more and more people are making an appearance. “Well?”

Brienne’s eyebrows descend in her usual expression of bewildered uncertainty. Tyrion lets out a loud cough that barely makes an effort at hiding the words _“so articulate!”_ Jaime is _seriously_ considering punching him in the face.

“I think he’s trying to ask you to dance,” his brother puts in. “The key words missing there, of course, being ‘would,’ ‘you,’ ‘me,’ and ‘dance.’ I can see how you might be confused.”

Brienne’s eyes go wide and she stares at Jaime, flustered. “Really?”

Jaime’s abruptly annoyed—annoyed at her for acting like it’s the most unbelievable thing she’s ever heard, and annoyed at himself for not making it clear that by asking her here, he was going to treat her with respect. That he was going to act like they really did come here together, like they’re really going to do all of the things that people who come to weddings together do. And for good measure, annoyed at Tyrion, too, for enjoying this so much.

“You’re my date, aren’t you?” he says, not bothering to hide his irritation, and gets off the stool, grabbing her hand and dragging her towards the dance floor (pleased to note that he’s _mostly_ steady on his feet).

Brienne follows him wordlessly, and it’s only a little awkward for him to set his hand at her waist and her hand on his shoulder, and to clasp their free hands as they move across the floor. She _is_ taller than he is (nothing new there, though, as Tyrion so kindly pointed out); Jaime expected to be at least a little embarrassed by this, as he often is, but he’s surprised to discover he doesn’t mind.

It puts him in a better mood, so he finds himself making conversation. “Did you do all of—” He briefly releases Brienne to gesture vaguely towards her face and jewelry. “—yourself? I wouldn’t think you’d know how.”

She scowls at him, stumbling just a little; he recovers their momentum as smoothly as possible, and her eyes drop to the floor, watching their feet to avoid another misstep. “Some of it. I had help, from your—your staff.”

She sounds awkward about it, and Jaime’s not sure if it’s about the fact that they have fucking _staff_ at the estate or if it’s over his relative abandonment. Or both. So though he hates it, he forces himself to say, “Sorry for—you know. Bailing on you. I wouldn’t have seen you much anyway, but—”

“It’s all right,” Brienne interrupts him, quiet. “I didn’t mind. I know this is—” She raises her gaze, catching Jaime’s eyes unexpectedly. He’s not sure what’s in her expression. Sympathy? Discomfort? Understanding?

“It can’t be easy for you,” she says, finally, her voice low, and Jaime feels, for what must be the dozenth time that day, like a vise is clamping down on his chest.

It’s not quite as bad this time, though. Maybe it’s something about the way Brienne is looking at him—not pity, but something gentler. Maybe it’s that she’s saying something sympathetic about his relationship with his fucking _sister,_ something he knows for a fact disgusted her when they first met, even when she had no way of knowing if it was just a rumor or not. Maybe it’s the implication that, regardless of his bad mood or how he’s treated her as a result or the reason for it, it might just be all right anyway.

It occurs to him that he thought this would be the worst day of his fucking life, but here, on the dance floor with Brienne, it seems it’s missed the mark enormously.

He’s not going to say that, of course. Instead he’ll smile, wide and insincere and not intended to fool Brienne for so much as a second, and say, “What do you mean? Can’t you tell I’m having the time of my life?”

Brienne snorts, as she always does at Jaime’s blatant lies, and rolls her eyes, as she always does when she can’t think of a quick response but needs Jaime to know how completely unbearable he’s being. And he grins at her, as he always does, and he steers her into another dance, and he doesn’t tell her that it’s not quite as much of a lie as he thought.


End file.
